


Ear to the Ground

by B_Kilroy



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Wasteland folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 22:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14602923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Kilroy/pseuds/B_Kilroy
Summary: Some time after the liberation of the Citadel, Furiosa sets out to find Max - if not to bring him back, then to make sure he's alright.





	Ear to the Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owlship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/gifts).



> Note 05/17/2018 - there was a part that I completely glossed over and didn't realize I had accidentally deleted. It's back in now!

There was something about the way Max disappeared so easily, so willingly from the lift. 

Furiosa knew she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, who would return so readily to a place that held him as prisoner for a commodity that held properties only in myth and treated him as though he were less than an animal? Perhaps she got the idea from the fact that he was the only reason they turned away from the Salt, the only reason they - no, _she_ made it back here as well as she did. There was such intense investment in their quest that it made sense that Max would want to reap what rewards he could. 

She supposed that it was her turn to play Fool. To pretend as though she knew all that was going on inside of his head was folly. Max had kept largely quiet for the few days they had spent together on the Fury Road. His ghosts were the loudest part of them; they still had the power to coax a reaction out of him and expose themselves to those who could see, but no one knew who they were. No one knew how he ticked. The only thing any of them knew was that he just wanted to live, and for a while there, it seemed as though he aimed to do so right alongside them. 

In the end, Max’s decision was to step off the lift and walk away, and Furiosa did nothing but smile and nod as he disappeared below them. The silent thanks was all she could give, and perhaps all he needed. Whatever his plan was next, he seemed confident enough to execute it on foot with only what he carried. After what she saw, she couldn’t doubt him one bit.

It still stung to see him go - as though something on a personal level had been cut across the grain. Max had quickly become her most formidable ally and proven himself invaluable. He could have easily kept himself a stranger, but he asked questions - sparingly, but meaningfully - and he kept involved. There was something about the way they had acted together as well. From their encounter with the Rock Riders, to their flight across the bog, to what they could manage for each other on their way back, it seemed as though they worked better as a whole rather than two separate parts. Furiosa valued what they shared - such true teamwork and compatibility is rare outside of armies - and that value appeared completely lost on Max.

Maybe he was over the human experience. It was something else he couldn’t be blamed for. The world was hardly meant for niceties and for things to make sense. Everyone had lost someone; however many Max lost remained his secret, but the losses were evident. People were a risk, a liability, another potential voice nagging in the back of his skull. 

The abuse he suffered at the hands of the Citadel only piled on the damage. Under Organic’s watch, he had been delegated sub-human. He was a crop. She had seen him shackled to a car, on the lancer’s perch right in front. Expendable. Without his blood, a toy, but mostly nothing. There was no immediate healing from that, and it would no doubt stay with him for some time. His tattoo would, after all, and so would the brand.

Max probably thought leaving was the best thing he could do to protect himself. Perhaps it was. What else could produce such a positive lasting impact as seeing the people you fought with - the person you poured your blood into - rise above thousands as they cheer for their return? Very little. It couldn’t get any better, and if he didn’t know any better, it couldn’t be any worse. The Citadel would exist for him as that moment for as long as the illusion held. It would only be broken if he stayed or heard any contradictory word of it, and that was what drove him out into the sand.

There was still so much that the Citadel had to offer - food, water, shelter, all damn near guaranteed and free. They were such basic needs that any sort of aversion to secondary problems should be overcame naturally. Not so with Max, it seemed. His freedom was all that he wanted, maybe even all he needed, and as soon as he had it, he was gone with the wind.

It wasn’t long before thoughts of Max had to be pushed to the side in favor of the more urgent tasks at hand. Admittedly, many of the cogs that ran the Citadel machine had ground to a halt without Joe, his Imperators, and even the Organic Mechanic. They found some small help in some survivors returning from the carnage of the Fury Road and those who had been called Wretched, but they still found themselves stretched thin. A great envy settled on the lot of them. Joe had made it work but kept no manual.

There was still a greater dilemma - what to do of the treadmill rats, what to do of the blood bags, what to do of the Milking Mothers? How else would they run the lift? What kind of nutritional and economic loss would come with no milk? Could they afford reparations? Could the lot of them, blood bags most of all, be convinced that their freedom was all they needed?

In the end, the Milking Mothers were proven to be useful as part of a greater governing council. Joe had spent too much time in their chambers with his Imperators and Corpus, talked over and disregarded because there was naught they could do with the information. Now, however, they were in the perfect spot to put it to good use.

The treadmill rats were, for the most part, granted clemency. Plans were put into motion to move an electric generator from the tower of the Maw to the great lift as part of a greater mechanism in order to replace them. In the meantime, when their services are required, they earned a generous pay.

The blood bags were not easy to deal with. A few of them were genuinely psychotic or feral, and perhaps weren’t even able to understand the fact they were being freed. Those that charged to attack were shot down. Those that ran met their untimely deaths by either falling to the plains below or losing themselves in the dark tunnel below, only to be recovered as corpses. Some of the blood bags were practically comatose. Their minds were empty, muscles atrophied, almost completely checked out of reality if it weren’t for the shaky eye contact they managed with the people trying to talk to them. Figuring out what to do with them was difficult.

The remainder of the blood bags were grateful for their release. The lot of them understood that there were very obvious limitations to what could be done for them, knew it would be hard to get anywhere close to normal. Many of them eventually disappeared into the general population. Some of them stuck around as they prove their usefulness; one ended up as Gale’s assistant as she turned the Chop Shop into a proper healing chamber.

Chaos was not just an internal force. There were still many groups of people on the outside to handle - those of the Bullet Farm and of Gastown that aimed to capitulate on the crippled capital of the Triumvirate, the Buzzards, whatever was left of the War Boys on the other side of the mountains. They could only count their lucky stars at the fact that they were still well-stocked on raw materials of war. Bomb-making came easy, and so did defense. 

Figuring out who to run the Citadel was their last big hurdle to overcome in order to reach some sort of normalcy. It was agreed that there would never be a single ruler - too much power cast upon one person was a proven recipe for disaster. They would have a council instead. Furiosa and the Sisters held seats alongside many of the Milking Mothers. Some few representatives of the former Wretched, War Boys, and those who worked within the Citadel joined them. Those that were close and wise - the Vuvalini, the History Man, even Corpus - were held in an advisory capacity. Such a diverse range of people cut a neat slice through the population of the Citadel, and allowed every single person to have a voice.

Furiosa, perhaps through her own mind’s manufacturing, felt the heaviest pressure of all. Her relative place in the old hierarchy and her status upon returning to the Citadel seemed to place her at the forefront of it all, as though she were the most qualified to replace Joe. It wasn’t her idea and wasn’t her desire at all; to remain an equal on the council was the most she would have of any sort of participation in the government. She needed the ability to back out and take a breather when she could, and once everything was settled down, that’s exactly what she did.

Eventually, after some weeks of peace, Max appeared in conversation among Furiosa and the Sisters. It was spontaneous, conjured only as an afterthought. “How do you think Max is doing?” Cheedo asked the question as the lot of them sat together in the Bio-dome, once again churning through the material from Before that had been stored in the chamber.

Despite the stretch of time between the Fury Road and the present, they barely had to pause to register the name. Max. It was something he had mumbled quietly to Furiosa as though she was the only one who should have heard. Cheedo had picked it up and used it sparingly to refer to the man as they were lifted back up into the Citadel. The name was hard to forget, especially having been linked to who it belonged to and from when they had learned it. The man behind it remained just as vivid.

It was hard for any of them to provide any answer but _fine._ They didn’t have the slightest clue of where he might go next, what he might do and make of himself. There were a few ideas that were simply given due to the fact that it applied to _all_ scavs. He may have made his way to Bartertown. He might have ventured out into the fringe territories that eluded the grasp of the former Triumvirate powerhouse. Perhaps he even journeyed back towards the pass in order to find the wreckage of his car - after all, how else would he get around?

Still, with the lack of certainty, it was just as likely that he had died shortly after leaving the Citadel and was somewhere out there buried beneath the dunes. None of them can comfortably swallow the idea of that being the reality.

“What if we went looking for him?” Toast offered the idea up for discussion as though Max was a long-lost friend who shared the same excitement at the concept of reuniting. The lot of them couldn’t pretend to know what Max would even want of them now, though. After all, this was a man who had first intended to steal the War Rig and indirectly leave them to Joe, had hardly spoke or done anything meaningful for anyone but Furiosa, and had done nothing to prepare them for his departure.

“What if he doesn’t want to be found?” Dag replied with her own question. “He’s got his own business to mind, and I doubt he’d be one to linger in the past. Plus, I don’t think his demons need the company of the living if they’re still chasing behind him.”

They went quiet again and resumed plucking through the material in front of them, seeming to take that as the abandoning of the idea. However, Dag quickly sounded off again, groaning to her own silent question. “Trying to pretend we know what he’s thinking is shit. Good chance we’re not even close. Could be a favor staying away, could be a favor going and looking for him. Only way to know is to go looking.”

With that, it seemed as though searching for Max was back up for debate.

“Where would you even start?” Capable asked, knowing the vastness of the wasteland and their collective relative inexperience was a handicap. “For all the places he could go, there have to be twice as many that we very well may not know about. Suppose you even find the right place, who’s to say you’d even see him?” Capable paused and turned to Furiosa, the only one who hadn’t said anything. “What do you think?”

Furiosa had to silently collect herself; she was the one perhaps most excited at the prospect of finding Max, if not simply undertaking the journey to try to. To go looking meant a good break from the Citadel and its machinations - a _vacation_ \- and to find Max was to reunite with someone that she had a complex relationship with. It was a relationship that was asking for growth, or at least a more proper resolution.

“You’ll only know if you go,” Furiosa echoed Dag’s last sentiment. “Personally, I’d like to give it a chance. We have maps and we know who we’re looking for, so we know what to ask people who might have seen him. Plus, for all that the Citadel has, any amount of supplies needed to look for him would be the equivalent of taking a drop of water out of a basin. Won’t hurt.”

While that seemed to be Furiosa making the search an easy given, there was much more to it that required more aimed thought and detail. She had to forge a copy of the most extensive map that had been made during Joe’s reign, forming an itinerary out of the most sensible paths. Calculations were made to decide how much food, water, and guzz would be needed. Further discussion with the council considered weaving work into Furiosa’s journey, but there was little they could think of having her do. There was little need for diplomacy or spreading of word about the Citadel. It was all something that would have been done by now.

The quest finally earned the green light after a week or so of preparations. Not much fanfare was made of her departure except for what the Bio-dome’s residents prepared for it. It wasn’t made secret, either; it wasn’t as though she would be disguised wherever she went. Furiosa’s absence would be known sooner or later.

Her only company to the garage were a couple of trusted War Boys to help rig up a vehicle to the lifting chains. The car was already stocked with what they thought she would need - food, water, guzz. It was no argument that she’d bring a gun and plenty of ammo to spare as well, along with a Citadel flare to call for backup should it be needed. 

Furiosa’s departure was as fast as the parting crowd below would allow; that being said, it was fairly quick. No one was clamoring to swarm the vehicles or the elevator anymore. There was no need to do so, and as such, the Citizens cleared the way and minded her well. A few seconds of driving took her to the vague dirty crossroad that drew lines towards Bullet Farm and Gastown. Instead of heading to either, she turned North with intentions of heading to Bartertown.

In terms of all the places she planned on travelling to, Bartertown was isolated. Its position almost seemed to discourage budding settlements - after all, when all your commerce and food came from Bartertown, why even try to compete? And what’s the point of living among others? _Strength in numbers,_ Furiosa thought to herself, but it was still very much a dog-eat-dog world. Hopefully, she could escape everyone dedicated to making that a truth.

Furiosa’s route took her on a wide berth around the Upper Shelf, the tall lip of earth north of the Citadel that necessitated a detour. The distance would require at least two, perhaps three days of camp before she’d complete the loop back home. 

Bartertown wasn’t fazed by the events of the Fury Road and the power shift that resulted. If anything, they had a small boom in business for their certainty in the time of uncertainty in the short time that followed. That isn’t to say it could stand on its own two legs; Bartertown was by and large a reseller of Triumvirate wares. It would have collapsed if they hadn’t gotten their shit together real quick.

She made it into the trade hub easily enough, parking the car among the rest of the vehicles belonging to the patrons and residents. Everything was well-enough hidden that she didn’t need to worry about it, and the car definitely wouldn’t go anywhere - she had connected a kill switch sequence to the engine. 

The crowd was no issue for Furiosa to move through. Her black linen scarf was the mark of an Imperator. While it wasn’t the same one, and it was largely hidden by a leather jacket courtesy of the Vuvalini, there wasn’t anyone in the Wastes that carried that same sort of metal prosthetic like her. It made getting to her targets, the supply vendors and the weapons dealer, _much_ easier.

It was a risk bypassing the line at the food and water lot, but the more desperate conversely seemed to understand the most. They knew her for her dealings with the vendor, and they were almost always there trying to haggle down the price for a meal as the deals were made. Before long, the well-to-do man at the head of it all noticed Furiosa and happily beckoned her forward. “ _Ah,_ Impera-”

“I need to talk to you,” she cut him off, having no need for the theatrics. It did the trick of silencing the vendor, who waved her back as he called for one of his workers to take his place. While it wasn’t necessarily a private conversation, they didn’t talk until they had retreated a fair bit into the warehouse. “I’m looking for a man, leather jacket and trousers. Has a pauldron on his shoulder, brace on his leg. Probably came here loaded.” Max had came back from the Bullet Farmer’s tank with more ammunition and gear than he knew what to do with; a lot of it ended up in his vest. “Have you seen him?” 

The vendor seemed a bit off-put by her straightforwardness, probably unduly confused at the change of tone that came when business wasn’t on the table. Still, he did his best to put forward an answer. “I-I can’t say for certain, since I see a thousand faces a day. In all likeliness, _yes,_ but if it was, it was a while ago. Anyone who comes here comes here for two things only - food and water. If you know this man and what he does, you might want to look elsewhere. Find the mechanic, the scrap dealer - hell, maybe even the weapons dealer if he was loaded like you said.”

It was a fair recommendation, even if it did point Furiosa in the direction she was already heading. At least she didn’t have to hustle him or jump through hoops to get the non-answer. With a small thanks, she left the vending warehouse and made her way through Bartertown towards where the weapons dealer worked. The War Boys almost always made their way towards him when they travelled for trade; it would be easy to follow their path.

“I need to talk to you,” she repeated to the dealer, echoing Max’s description to the man at the guarded booth. It didn’t take long for his face to light up - she had a lead.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him! Came with a great boon of supplies, even some stuff with a mark from one of the Three Cities,” he offered the last words with hesitation. Any goods that came in that they knew had once been part of a War Party supply were dangerous to keep hold of - flares, ammo belts, anything that wasn’t dealt in the regular Triumvirate caravans. When Joe was in power, dealing with such material would have meant dire consequences. The council was definitely more lenient, but only wanted to make sure none of it fell into the wrong hands. “He got himself a fair bit of credit with his load. Took his slip and headed right to the mechanic.” 

_Mechanic._ It would have been the last place she looked - Max left on his own two feet. Why in the world would he go looking for a black-thumb? 

After her third introduction of the day and a brief questioning, the mechanic seemed almost eager to speak of his encounter - perhaps only to complain. “Lemme tell you, that man is _beyond_ lucky he had the credit he had or I would have been liable to leave him on the other side of the mountains.”

The one sentence alone was enough to conjure a variety of emotions in Furiosa - shock, confusion, anger. They brought with them many questions that the man managed to answer before she could open her mouth against him.

“So he wants me to take some guys with the tow rig _all_ the way east through the mountain pass. Never mind the fucking fact it’ll take about five days to get there and back again, there was a _road war_ and it’s completely congested and this and that and I might as well be sitting on my stick shift all the way there…” He reached towards his jacket pocket with his three-fingered hand, appearing to forget there was nothing there. The man was old, likely from Before, or when and where cigarettes were more common. 

With an aggravated sigh, he continued with Furiosa’s attention. “So anyways, we finally get there, find his _car,_ which was a smouldering pile of shit. Me and my boys scrounge what we can while we’re there, figuring hours out of a week don’t much matter. Thank goodness for that, I suppose.

“So we come back and he dicks with it in a bay for a day until he accepts he can’t do shit with it, and I keep my fuckin’ mouth shut because fuckin’ _of course_ \- there’s no interior, the frame is totalled, hardly anything in the engine bay is usable. Might as well hand him a crushed tin can.

“So anyways, he ends up asking for a bike and I claim the wreckage as collateral. It completely expends his credit by the time he’s gotten his supplies and left. Sure did make me work for them.” As soon as the black-thumb was done with his story, he paused. “So what about him?”

“Do you know where he’s going?”

“If it’s anywhere lively, it’s gotta be south of here. Bartertown’s the only place worth staying at up north if you’re not native, so your best bet is the Three Cities. There’s some places southwest of Gastown, but it’s a long ways away.”

Furiosa nodded as she got the information, though she was already aware of what lied southwest of the Triumvirate. It wasn’t a lot - too little, too far away for anyone in power to try and subjugate. She was, again, silently grateful that no one thus far had tried to keep the information away from her. While she could have left, Furiosa decided to stay for a moment longer. “Do you still have the wreckage?”

“Aye. Want to take a look?” Earning a nod in response, the mechanic waved her along towards the proper garage. It was no trouble for him - not much in the line of work had to be done at the moment. The man still couldn’t help but sigh at the sight when he pulled back the curtain to expose Max’s vehicle. It was vaguely familiar; Furiosa remembered him saying something about it before shooting at a War Boy on its hood.

The man didn’t exaggerate about its condition. Very few wrecks got this severe. Then again, it isn’t every day that a car gets smashed between two behemoth rigs. She gave it a good look over, only retreating once the faint odor of charred flesh started to waft out of the cabin. 

If Furiosa were in the same situation as Max, she’d certainly abandon all hope of repair, but she had more resources available to her than he could ever have by himself. There was a thought of taking it back to the Citadel and getting it repaired, offering it to him as a token of gratitude, but she still didn’t know where he was, and that meant nothing else was for certain. Still… “Could you hold this here for me?”

“Will you pay for the spot?” The man’s reply was sharp, but not out of place. It was Bartertown, and not a lot happened for free.

“Don’t suppose you’re fed up dealing with credit yet, are you?” She could tell the idea hurt the man as he groaned in response, but she continued. “I’m council at the Citadel, you know. Anything you want within reason is yours, and I’ll get it to you in due time. I’m not good to trade right now.” Begrudgingly, he agreed to terms, offering her a list of tools and hardware that were either broken or gone - the lot of it seemed fair to her.

Furiosa wasted no time in getting back on the road with a confirmed lead on Max, no matter how dated it may be. That only gave her more reason to travel with haste, even though there were still days between her and her destinations. She supposed she would skip the Bullet Farm; no commerce existed there, and something told her Max would not have tried to stop. 

Beyond the weapons manufacturer, the Citadel was the Citadel, and Gastown had the Amnesty. She could afford to skip going home and head straight to Gastown, but she still had her reservations. The Amnesty hadn’t happened in a while - if it had, and if it was going to, the War Boys would be clamoring to go. Outside of the event, the settlement wasn’t all-too-friendly towards outsiders, even after the death of the People Eater. It was more of something among the citizens and from the environment that turned people off and away. Unsure of her decision, she decided to head on through the Last Road and make her way southwest. If she didn’t find him there, Furiosa could always go back. 

The stretch of land separating her from her destination was known as the Dead Barrens - the name was self-explanatory. There was nothing at all outstanding about the landscape. It was largely pale dirt and plains, perhaps only ever broken by soft hills and decayed remnants of Before. It allowed for mindless driving, but the absence of effort usually required made way for a torrent of thought.

Furiosa wondered about the Green Place, the Citadel, the people she had grown to acknowledge as a sort of family. Were they doing well - would they _continue_ to do well? When would Dag be due? How much time did Nux have left, having already escaped death once? How steady would the Triumvirate’s complete relationship remain? Could much be done to improve the quality of life of the Wretched of the Bullet Farm and Gastown? Can…

It almost felt like her place was to worry about everything. Ever since they came back, she had done a lot of worrying. To Furiosa, it only seemed right. She had spent way too long as a cog in Joe’s machine. For all that she had done to keep it going, she felt the need to do more and _then_ some to go in a new direction. Corpus didn’t care. The War Boys were grunts, only capable of individual guilt, and were largely tools of their Imperators. Most were trying to do good by themselves; Furiosa had the dead and everyone else to do good by.

The sleep came as well as it could. For the few nights she spent on the Barrens, she tucked the car into grooves between hills to reduce its profile, and that was about all she could do to camouflage the vehicle. A pistol was her next and last line of defense. She was thankful that it didn’t need to see use, but as she approached the first settlement on the horizon, Furiosa had to ask herself if she needed it there. 

The vehicle was unmistakably Citadel property. It couldn’t be disguised in any sort of manner to fool anyone who has seen the like. She had a choice of driving it in anyways with the hopes that news of the power shift had come, and that they saw no threat, but what were the chances? The Citadel _knew_ of them, yes, but these settlements were never subjugated, never traded with - perhaps only harassed by loose bands of War Boys and other packs of violent actors. 

Furiosa had never made the drive, so there was a good chance she could walk in with no trouble. If they didn’t know her, she was as good as nobody. The brand on her neck may be noticed but could be dismissed. A good few people outside of the Citadel bore the scar for committing a crime against Joe, but more often than not, those same people were simply taken prisoner. 

To be safe, she parked nearly a half-mile away, more than willing to walk to and from her destination to save herself any trouble. It was entirely possible she was being observed by someone with a spyglass, but what was she going to do? Furiosa was one person, alone, and it wasn’t as though any trouble would come to them any time soon. Confident enough, she prepared a knapsack of supplies, holstered her pistol in her jacket, and headed on towards the shacks in the distance.

Sure enough, there were a couple of people waiting for her as she neared the “border” of the shanty. Their posture wasn’t aggressive, but they were certainly armed to defend themselves. One had a bolt-action rifle slung over their shoulder, while another postured with his hands on his hips, pistol settled in an open holster. Hopefully, her own weapon wouldn’t cause any trouble.

“You could have drove on in, you know,” the rifleman spoke first as she stopped some thirty feet away from them. The tone isn’t accusatory, but Furiosa can’t help but feel as though it was a bad move.

“Can’t be too careful,” she replied, playing the card she knew was in everyone’s hand. “I haven’t been here before, so I don’t know how things go down here, but I know it goes both ways.”

“Correct.” The man shuffled on his feet, unsure what to say. “Are you armed?”

“Yes, I am. Pistol in my jacket.” Furiosa knew that honesty was going to be the best policy. Being met by two armed men meant that they had _some_ reason to be defensive. If they found out later that she had been lying, there’s no telling what would happen.

The answer earned a pause from the rifleman. It made her wonder if they even tolerated weapons in the first place, but the man soothed her worry soon enough. “Don’t think you’ll take any risks when your ride’s that far out, yeah?” He seemed to use his statement to comfort himself and his silent partner, too. “Got any business you need help with?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a friend who might have come through here. Leather jacket, leather trousers, pad on his shoulder, brace on his leg. Probably came in on a bike.” The description came out as plain as it had in Bartertown, and she expected the same response from them, if not duller. However, the image she conjured for the men managed to make the men perk up.

“You know the Road Warrior?” _Does he mean Max?_ Another question was - why were they excited at the concept of hearing about him? Why did they call him the _road warrior?_ Was there more to the man than she knew of?

“If we’re thinking of the same man, yes,” she replied, hoping that the association meant something good.

“Yeah, he’s been through here, not too long ago! He hadn’t been here for a long time, none of us can figure it out. Wasn’t here for a minute before he kept on going to the other holdings. Eh… come on, let’s not stand out here like this - wanna come into town?” The rifleman almost turned towards the shanty, gesturing inwards. His companion, still mute, did his best to seem inviting.

Furiosa almost didn’t want to. She got her information and was good to go, but there was something about their enthusiasm surrounding Max that drew her in. Maybe they had something interesting to share - and maybe in turn they wanted to hear something out of her. She wasn’t too sure about that, but the intrigue drew her in.

She followed the men into the settlement, eventually stopping and sitting around a burnt-out campfire. They sprung the question on Furiosa before she could get anything out - _how do you know the Road Warrior?_ It would be impossible to tell the story of the Fury Road without some sort of convoluted recasting of herself in case they didn’t believe her, either as the person or as the storyteller. They might not buy into the idea that Joe could have been overthrown how he was. Lying would be her best option.

“When your car breaks down out there in the sand, it’s almost a certain death sentence if you don’t have the tools to fix your shit. You snap a fan belt with no replacement, and you’re going nowhere. Nowadays, _good luck_ finding anyone who’ll stop and help, and good luck buying your way out of a life debt.

“Well, guess who stopped for me?” The men hummed on cue, knowing where the story was going. “He got my car running and wouldn’t take any payment, not even after he followed me to Bartertown to make sure it wouldn’t break down again. We met a few times after that, but it was never anything big. Only thing now is that his car’s stuck up somewhere, and I’m trying to get him back to it.”

“Bit of a full circle, eh?” the rifleman smiled, and Furiosa nodded in response. 

Before the man could ask anything else, Furiosa spoke up. “So what have you heard of him? What has he done?”

“Well, I suppose a better question would be what _hasn’t_ he done? Seems like you can’t go a fortnight without hearing something new, and you can never tell whether it’s a truth or not. _Still,_ enough details and enough people come crawling out of the woodwork to confirm this or the other and it makes you think it all might as well have happened, and he’s truly done it all. Lemme tell you what I’ve seen.

“I’ve only gone to Gastown when I know the Amnesty’s on. Do a bit of trade, mingle with the scum of the earth, the usual, but the real attraction is the Thunderdome. You get to see people beat each other to shit for the ultimate prize, whatever they may choose it to be. Everyone’s climbing all over the cage trying to get their face right through the grate so they can see it front row. I’m spry enough to get high enough to where no one’s tuggin’ at me, but that’s not the point.

“So you have the Road Warrior, almost small in comparison to everyone else within the starting circle, _dwarfed_ by the stack-of-shit Buzzard that comes in with his armor. Still, as soon as they start the bloodbath, he’s going at it, kicking and punching and _killing_ despite the odds.” The man’s story was exciting enough that people were joining them around the pit of ashes - it was likely that it was simply another retelling, but it was clearly still entertaining.

“It’s all happening so fast, it almost makes you wonder why they do it anyways. One man down, and another, and another, and the sand is _drenched_ in blood and the flies are already fast on the corpses. Not five minutes go by before it’s only the Road Warrior and the Buzzard champion. He tries to climb, knows height will give him an advantage, might find a weapon. Someone reaches through the grate to give him something - it means he’ll cheat, but the Buzzard already is with his fucking armor. He grabs it and it’s a flare - _fsshh_ \- stabs it right in the scag’s eye. The man falls, and the Road Warrior tears of his metal helmet, slams it right through the Buzzard’s skull - and he wins. The Outcrier offers him anything if the Road Warrior works for them, but he takes the prize, the Boss engine, and he fades away into the night. Almost like another day’s business for him.”

“What about the Gastown Races?” One of the people who had settled into the ring around the ashes spoke up, lit up at the idea of talking about Max once more. “I know for a fact I’ve seen him and that black speed demon of his tear up the track and win in record time. Whatever he has in his engine bay is more than what any one man may ever have in his whole life, but what he _does_ with it, that’s what matters…”

The stories came almost as though on cue. It seemed like everyone had seen or heard _something_ that Max had done, and each source of the tale was farther removed from its teller than the last. Each tale was polished, and details seemed to spill in from one another as they were told, as though _everyone_ should know. 

It started to remind her of sitting in the Bio-dome with Miss Giddy as she told her own stories, whether they be off the top of her head or out of the yellowed books stacked around the room. After some time, she and the other _Wives_ knew what was coming, and could predict what Miss Giddy would say next. It didn’t necessarily make it any less enjoyable, though.

Out here, the stories were different. They were in the present, always within the realm of probability, almost _always_ involving someone real and alive. There was an element of excitement to be so close to them, to either be a part of the story or know anyone who was. Everyone that gathered in the circle had _something,_ tales rivalling the History Man and Miss Giddy, and they had no problem telling them over and over again. 

Furiosa heard just about all that she could. One of them told of how he once blew up an entire underground Buzzard compound by himself, escaping only by the skin of his teeth. Another spoke of how they’ve heard of him taking out an entire War Boy patrol alone with only his car and his shotgun. There were some who had the same plain story as hers - him stopping in the middle of the desert to help someone he didn’t know. She bought into those the most, but knew not to underestimate him; he did, after all, take out the Bullet Farmer’s Peacekeeper almost single-handedly with only a kukri and a 5-liter can of guzz.

The mundane clashed with the fantastic - both kinds of stories were so numerous that Max was beginning to seem half-man, half-myth. It couldn’t be possible that all those heroes were _him_ \- it was too much greatness for one man. Then again, who was she to say the lot of them were wrong, or lying? Who was she to discourage such a legend from growing if it did a damn good job at inspiring and lifting spirits? Maybe only an enabler - maybe worse if Max knew, and _hated_ it.

After some time, she bowed out of the circle, long abandoned as the point of anyone’s attention. Furiosa had her information, and with night rapidly approaching, she wanted to get back to the car before dark.

The next day, she continued her drive through the southwestern territory towards the next closest settlement, which didn’t take long. Furiosa exercised the same amount of caution she had the day before - park the car some distance away and walk the rest. It worked, and once again, her description fit that of the _road warrior_. She avoided entangling herself in any more conversation about him and headed on to her final destination.

It was the largest and most impressive of the three. The place was more of a fort than anything, something from the Old World patched with scrap and stone. It seemed impenetrable - if not due to the walls, then due to the fact that its only entrance was a drawbridge. Entering wouldn’t be possible without direct confrontation.

“Hello!” Furiosa shouted up to the top of the wall, waiting for an answer. She could hear that it was busy with the sound of people and machines. Afraid her voice would be drowned out, she shouted again. “Hello!”

It took another moment of hesitation before a small hatch opened in the middle of the drawbridge. The size was about the same as a car window, enough for someone to lean out of and converse with whoever was outside. Furiosa could see it was an older man - bald, bearded, and tired if not angry. “What’s your business?” he called out to her, cutting above the noise.

“I’m looking for someone -”

“Who?” The man was quick to cut her off. There was an urgency to his tone, but not because he was pressed for time. She didn’t have a good feeling about this.

“He’s dressed in leather, pants and jacket. He has a brace and a shoulder pad, would have come through on a -”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him. He’s not your business.”

“What - what do you _mean_ he’s not my business?” she asked, confused and taken aback by the response. Was Max _his_ business? Was there something going on here that meant Max was in trouble?

“I know him, and I don’t know you. As far as I know, no one’s looking for him, so it’s none of your business, and I _know_ you didn’t just walk here. You hid your car because it’s something you don’t want us to see. I don’t trust like that. Now get out of here.” Without allowing her the shortest of retorts, the hatch closed, and Furiosa was shut off from the fort.

 _Incredible,_ she thought, to have made it so far for such a response. Furiosa can’t argue the logic, though. She’d want her own people to be safe, too. 

At the very least, it seemed as though Max was alright. Nothing she had heard implied he was in any sort of danger. All things considered, he was probably fairly well off, and she just reached a dead end. It would mean going back and checking out Gastown and the Bullet Farm as the last possible places Max could be without running herself dry in the desert. Furiosa couldn’t help but think she had lost him, though, never to be found unless he wanted to be.

As she turned to journey back to her car, a spot of red caught her attention from the top of the wall. It was someone waving a handkerchief, and they only stopped once they had Furiosa’s attention. She could see it in their relaxed posturing as they pointed out beyond the wall - they themselves were tired of their leader, and were offering a direction to travel in. After taking note with her compass, Furiosa gave the person a firm wave before heading back to her car. 

There was, of course, _no_ guarantee that Max would be anywhere she looked in this direction. Time and the landscape were huge deciding factors in whether or not they’d cross paths - and that’s only if that person on the catwalk wasn’t bullshitting. Furiosa knew quite a few War Boys who enjoyed the idea of offering bad directions simply because it would lead to someone’s untimely demise. At the very least, she was prepared for being lost. If it was any worse than that, then hopefully speed would remain her advantage.

Of course, the idea of treachery could all be in her head. After all, she had made it this far on an incredibly hot lead. Everyone had been honest and told the truth, either out of respect for her or out of respect for Max. No one on this side of the Dead Barrens was malicious enough to mislead - at least so far.

The contemplation of how trustworthy strangers were stopped when she spotted the faint glint of metal in the distance. Furiosa carefully moved her car to get a better view of the source and earned another bright reflection of sunlight, but this time she was able to see it. It was a motorcycle. Near it, a sheet of cloth was set up over a rock for shelter. The hope of who she would find was obvious, but there was no knowing unless she got close, maybe even too close for comfort.

She drove slowly towards the makeshift camp, mindful of her speed. Arriving in a hurry would only serve to startle whoever she would find. At the same time, it could put herself in danger. A slower target is an easier target. To be safe, Furiosa kept her pistol close, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.

She was still pretty far off when a figure emerged from underneath the blanket. The person didn’t move for the bike, didn’t move to hide, simply held their weapon - a shotgun - and waited. As Furiosa grew closer, the details of their target emerged. Their clothes were a dark, weathered leather. A brace was wrapped neatly around their knee. They had a shoulder pad - she was done nitpicking and gawking. It _had_ to be Max.

In the time since they had parted ways, he had allowed his hair and beard to grow; it wasn’t uncomparable to the ferals Furiosa had seen taken into the Citadel. Nothing else had changed, though. He still had _that_ look, one that reminded her of a lost and scared dog, one that didn’t know how to process what was going on. In all likelihood, Max had never expected to see her again.

They stayed there for a while, him standing and her sitting, both trying to figure out what to do next. Max seemed half-inclined to hop on the bike and make a break for anywhere but here and now, but simply stowed away his shotgun and stood at further attention. Furiosa was fumbling for something - _anything_ to say. 

“Hey,” she finally settled on. Max’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. He swallowed hard and remained silent, so Furiosa continued. “I know you didn’t expect seeing me again, especially out here. We, uh… we just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

This time, Max managed to reply. “Oh, I’m alright.” The words came like a creaking door, spoken with no real air behind them. He probably hasn’t been talking much. “You, um…?” His hand drifted down to his lower ribs, gesturing to where Furiosa would have scars on her own body.

“Yeah, I’m all healed from that. Took a bit, but I’m better now.” Silence fell between them again as Furiosa tried to work out what next to say. She didn’t want it to be heavy-handed, but she didn’t want her offer to be too ignorable, too easy to pass on. “How are you on supplies?”

Max looked over his shoulder at the bike and his camp, brow tensed at the obvious answer. Without his car, his ability to carry anything in big amounts would be significantly stunted. It almost seemed necessary to stay close to where he knew he could trade or scavenge. His freedom to move would be limited.

“If you ever need anything, you can get it from us, you know.” She could tell he didn’t like the idea. It was a connection he didn’t want and wasn’t looking for. Max didn’t want debts between him and others, even if it favored him. “You did more than enough to earn your fair share. Don’t pretend like you didn’t. You could have made your own way but you helped us, and you’re one of the reasons the Citadel is free.”

Max didn’t make any attempt to deny the fact. He simply nodded his head and stared down into the sand. She knew that he had been a blood bag - the first time they met eyes was when he was strapped to a lancer’s perch. The sheer thought of returning to the place that kept him prisoner was probably enough to sicken him or do worse things to his mind. 

“You don’t have to worry, but I know you will. Just know that no one’s going to hurt you, yeah? Especially if I’m with you, or you’re with me, and there’s a lot of people who will vouch for you.” 

Again, he didn’t argue. Max simply simmered in his own thoughts, thinking to himself about the situation what he would, giving up no hints. Furiosa couldn’t change his mind about anything, wouldn’t force him to do anything. Guilting him would probably only do worse. There was little else she could think of that would persuade him, and could only hope he took her offer up when he needed it.

“Hey,” she spoke up to him again, and held her hand out of the car window, palm open and waiting. Max saw it, felt the ghost of the gesture tickle him from the Salt. He had stopped her then to save her and hers, doing his best to convince them there was something better out there than dust. Now it was her turn.

She didn’t know how long she waited for him, but knew that when his hand finally met hers, it wasn’t soon enough. Furiosa couldn’t help but twitch a quick grin at the reciprocation. Max was unreadable behind all that hair, but she could see some warmth return to his eyes. There was a hint of that same quiet confidence that he had on the Salt, something that she’d like to see him do something with.

When they let go of each other, there were no more words. A final nod between the both of them was what allowed her to start up her car again. With little fanfare, Furiosa pulled out of the camp, orienting herself in the vague direction of the Citadel. A brisk pace could see her back home in three or four days’ time. 

Furiosa had to consider it mission accomplished. She had found Max, and he was alive and well - fending for himself with less than he wanted, yes, but he was making it. Everything was laid out for him, and they both understood where each other was. The Sisters would get their good news and hear a hell of a story to boot - but as a dust plume kicked up in her rear view mirror, and the tell-tale buzz of a motorcycle grew, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. They would probably like hearing it from the man himself.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fill for Owlship, who requested:
> 
> "It's a pretty well-established trope that Max comes back to the Citadel at some point, so I would like to see the reverse! For whatever reason you'd like and at whatever point after the movie most interests you, Furiosa goes out into the Wasteland in search of Max.
> 
> Whether she finds him or not and what happens afterwards is up to you.
> 
> While she's out looking I would love to have her listen to a campfire-type story about Max/something he's done, but that's optional."
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this out, especially as a first time exchange participant. Hopefully you've enjoyed!


End file.
